221B
by CreativeCrayon
Summary: What if Sherlock Holmes' friend and companion John Watson was actually a woman? This is because I hate all the gay references in BBC's SHERLOCK. I have changed the plots a bit and added some aspects of the original stories while keeping some of my favorite dialogue from the show.
1. Chapter 1

"Now, really, Stamford, who would want me for a flatmate?"

Joan Watson was a pale woman in her late twenties. Her eyebrows were thin and her plump lips were a natural pale pink color. She wore no makeup, her clothing was simple and practical and fit her medium-sized frame well. Most people would consider her unattractive, but those who looked closer saw that she held a subtle beauty.

She and her friend Mike Stamford were enjoying a quiet, getting-to-know-you-again meal. Mike had recently been employed by a medical school to teach medicine and Joan had just returned from an extensive trip to America and Scotland. They had both attended Saint Bartholomew's Medical School and had become fast friends, but had drifted apart when he became a doctor and she went into writing.

Upon her return to London, Joan began a search for a flat, but found that the royalties she earned from her published works were not enough to keep her head above water.

As much as she loved the old town, London was just too expensive for her budget and she was not exactly the best of roommates. Joan suffered from night terrors, mild paranoia, and bouts of laziness countered with times of Obsessive-Compulsive activeness.

The cafe that the two old friends were seated in was an old-fashioned one that was used mainly for tourists, chosen by Mike for its inexpensive, but tasty meals. It was crowded, but not so loud that the two people had to strain to hear one another.

They had discussed almost everything. From weather, to Mike's recent marriage to a wonderful woman, to writing, schools, doctors, and the recent news about a serial killer who had no pattern. Finally, they arrived at the topic of finances.

Mike and Joan had often asked the other's advice about certain monetary moves and investments and had, more often than not, been saved from financial disaster.

Smiling, Mike shook his head ironically, "You are the second person to say that to me today."

The first person to whom Stamford was referring was doing some research in the lab portion of Saint Bartholomew's hospital.

When the two friends entered the lab, a pungent, acidic smell greeted their noses. It was almost so strong that it brought tears to their eyes, but both were medical professionals and were used to smells like that.

The lab was small, but not so small that it would hinder those who came to study and examine. The walls were lined with shelves that held various lab equipment and medical machinery was scattered about the floor. In the middle of the room was a table that took up most of the space while leaving enough room to maneuver.

Seated at the table was a tall, thin man with scruffy, black hair that exaggerated his angular features. The man was wearing a casual business suit that suited his lean figure. He was examining something through a microscope and seemed engrossed in his work.

No sooner had the door closed than the man looked up at Stamford and asked to borrow his phone since his had no signal and was running out of battery.

Mike replied, "The land-line is perfectly fine."

"Yes," the thin man replied in a distracted way, "I prefer to text."

Mike shrugged apologetically, "Left mine downstairs."

"Here," Joan said, pulling her phone out of her pocket and checking to make sure it had a good signal before handing it to the thin man.

He thanked her and began to text, but not before sending a curious glance at Joan. The look gave Joan the impression that she was being scrutinized carefully, but it did not make her uncomfortable.

"This is Joan Watson, a good friend of mine," said Stamford by way of introduction.

The man handed Joan's phone back to her and went back to the microscope, "You have much family in Florida, Joan?"

"Just my aunt..." Joan froze when she realized that neither she nor Stamford had said anything about Florida. She stared at this strange man. How on earth did he know that?

"How do you like the violin?"

Joan cast a questioning glance at Mike who gave her an amused smile, but remained silent. She was so shocked that, "Sorry?" was all she could say.

The man continued, filling out a form while he did so, "When I think, I like to play the violin. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. I am prone to sudden bouts of excitability and am, at times, very... sulky." He took Joan's silence as a cue to go on, "Flatmates should know the worst about each other, don't you think?"

"Mike," Joan turned to her friend, "you didn't... say anything?"

He shook his head, clearly very impressed, "Not a syllable."

Turning to the black-haired man, Joan said, "How did you know about the flatmate thing, then?"

"I was just telling Stamford, here, that I was looking for a flatmate and that I am a really difficult person to find a flatmate for," as he spoke, the tall man put away his things and shrugged on his coat. "Here he is, not five hours later. Naturally, I assumed that you had a similar problem to mine."

Joan did not know what to say and the man plowed ahead, "I found a nice place in the middle of London. Two bedrooms, a bath, a kitchen and a sitting room. Between the two of us the rent should be affordable.

"Sorry, I've got to dash, I have a rather important meeting in less than half an hour."

He was halfway out the door when Joan called him back, "Wait." He stood halfway in the lab and halfway in the hallway, facing Joan and listening, "We just met. I know nothing about you, not even your name, and you know nothing about me and we are going to look at a flat that I don't know the address of?"

"I know that you recently came back to England from a prolonged stay in Florida. You have a brother who misses you, but you won't call him - probably because of his alcoholism... maybe because he just split up with his wife. You are suffering from a financial strain, your family is in Scotland and you won't go to them for help. Your psychiatrist thinks that your limp is psychosomatic - and I am afraid that is correct." He said the entire speech in one breath without sounding rushed as if he did that sort of thing all the time.

He smiled, "My name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Shall we meet at 7:00pm tonight?"


	2. Chapter 2: Sherlock Holmes of 221B

"What do you know about him?" Joan asked Mike Stamford as they sped off to 221B Baker Street in a taxi.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Mike thought a moment before answering as if he thought the answer needed put gently, "Not much. He's an honorable fellow, though. A bit of a quirk, but honorable all the same."

He glanced at Joan who was giving him a look, asking him to tell all he knew. "Joan, look. I know this is all new and scary for you, but he's a good man. I don't think that he'd... well, it's not in his character."

He did not look as if he were going to say any more on the matter.

Joan gaped at him for a moment before shaking her head and leaning back in her seat.

Remembering suddenly that Mr. Holmes had sent a text from her phone, Joan reached into her pocket and pulled it out. She switched it on and sifted through the sent text messages - which was easy because there were only three people she texted and none of them on a regular basis.

The message said:  
_If brother has green ladder,  
arrest brother.  
SH _

Intrigued by this strange text message, Joan then began a long internet search that took the rest of the cab ride to Baker Street where Sherlock Holmes was waiting for them.

A few moments after they arrived, Stamford said goodbye and left hurriedly in the same cab he and Joan had arrived in as if he did not want to stay around long.

"Hello, Mister Holmes," said Joan, standing awkwardly outside the door of 221B Baker Street.

It was a busy, old-fashioned street with plenty of expensive stores and bakeries lining the roadway. The door to 221B Baker Street was black and almost Victorian looking with '221B' in golden letters just above the .

"No, no. Call me Sherlock, please," came the reply as they shook hands. As they did so, Joan noticed that her new friend had a very odd eye color - a soft lime green.

Joan nodded at the stores as Sherlock knocked at the door, "This is an excellent spot, it must be very expensive."

"Yes, but the landlady gave me a special deal." In answer to her questioning look, Sherlock explained, "She owed me a favor. Her husband got sentenced to death in the States."

"You got her husband off a death charge?" Joan was impressed as was expressed in her voice and reaction to his statement.

"Oh no," he shook his head slightly as the door opened to reveal an elderly woman in her late sixties. "I ensured it," he flashed Joan a smile and greeted the elderly woman. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson."

The woman smiled in a motherly way and gave him a brief hug, "Oh, Sherlock."

"This is Joan Watson, she's here to look at the flat."

"Hello, Joan. Come in. Come in! Sherlock waited for Joan to enter first and Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind them.

The entrance was small and divided in half. The half on the right led to a hallway, the one on the left led up a flight of stairs which Sherlock began climbing almost as soon as they had entered the room.

Joan followed him as quickly as she could considering her leg and cane. As it was, Sherlock reached the top of the stairs first and held the door open for Joan when she finally arrived.

It was obvious that he was extremely confident that she would like it.

The first view Joan Watson got of the apartment was the sitting room. The sitting room was large enough to comfortably entertain several people - not that Joan would want to. There was a couch and three sofas, three wooden chairs and two small desks, but all of it was nearly imperceptible through the boxes and books. There was a skull on the shelf that held the television.

"This is very nice," she said quietly from the door. "Very nice."

Sherlock looked around for a moment before answering, "Yes, I thought so. I, uh, I already moved in."

Forcing herself not to stare at this odd man in all his strangeness, Joan replied, "Oh."

Mrs. Hudson entered the room and stood with her right hand under her chin and her left hand under her left hand's elbow. "What do you think, Miss Watson? The other bedroom's up the second set of stairs - if you'll need two bedrooms."

"Yeah," Joan said quickly, more than a little flustered that the elderly woman would think that they would only need one bedroom. "We are going to need two bedrooms... of course."

"I understand dear," said Mrs Hudson in a knowing way and she left the way she came.

The kitchen was as much of a mess as the sitting room. It was small, but comfortably so. There was a small island in the middle of the kitchen with three wooden chairs of the same make and model of those in the sitting room.

"I think, when this gets cleaned up it should be very livable," said Joan as she headed back to the living room to sit down. Sherlock followed her and stood by the window, looking through one of the boxes that was sitting there. "I found your website on the way here," said Joan by way of conversation.

Joan's new friend looked pleased with himself, "What did you think?"

She gave him a perplexed look, "Can you really tell an airplane pilot by his left thumb?"

"I could read your life in your face and your mobile phone," he said as if that explained everything.

"How?"

Sherlock was about to answer when Mrs. Hudson came into the room again, reading a newspaper, "Do either of you know anything about these serial suicides, then? How many have there been now?"

"Three," said Joan, still waiting for Sherlock to explain his earlier comment.

"Four," said the tall man from his position by the window. He was staring down at the street with a look of concentration on his face. "There has been a fourth and not that long ago either. Something has changed."

"What?" Joan stood and strode over to the window. She looked down and saw that a police car was parked just outside. A middle-aged man in a grey coat was getting out and hurriedly entering the building.

"There's been a fourth and something has changed." He repeated as his brow furrowed in puzzlement, "Why has the pattern changed?"

Downstairs, the front door opened and closed. A medium-sized, pepper-haired man ran up the stairs and stopped just inside the door. He was obviously in a hurry and was nearly completely out of breath.

Sherlock turned, his face unfathomable, "Where?"

"Brixton," came the simple reply.

"What has changed? You wouldn't be coming to me unless something has changed."

The man at the door took a deep breath before answering, "The victim left a suicide note."

"A note," Sherlock said slowly. His face was still unfathomable, but Joan could see the traces of a smile playing at the edges of his lips.

"Will you come?" It was apparent that the pepper-haired man needed something that Sherlock Holmes had and was concerned that the other man would not come.

Sherlock nodded and the man thanked him before descending the stairs and entering his vehicle. When the car had gone, Sherlock's entire demeanor changed. He leapt into the air in celebration, exclaiming, "Four serial suicides and now a note! Aha!"

With that, he left through the main door, grabbing his coat on the way out. As he descended the stairs, he called out, "Joan, make yourself comfortable, I shouldn't be too long."

The front door slammed shut and there was silence for a few moments before Mrs. Hudson sat down on the sofa and began to make small talk. They chatted for a few seconds, Joan more than a little distracted by the incidents that had just occurred, when Sherlock Holmes suddenly appeared at the door.

He stared at her for a moment before stating, "You're a doctor." He frowned and cocked his head to the side, "Any good?"

Joan shrugged in acquiescence.

"Seen a lot of bad...?" He left his question unfinished and hanging.

"Yes," Joan nodded, painful memories resurfacing, "enough for a lifetime, I think."

His frown deepened, "Want to see some more?"

"Oh, yes," was all Joan said before being whisked off down the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson's soft voice floated down from the upstairs as she came down and stopped at the foot of the stairway, "Are you both going out?"

"Yes." Sherlock stopped before exiting the house and turned to give Mrs. Hudson a brief hug. He released her and started for the front door again, closely followed by Joan, "The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"

Sherlock held the taxi door open for Joan and she thanked him before entering. Sliding over to the other side, Joan noticed that that was exactly what her new friend had expected her to do. He seemed a bit too knowledgeable about her habits.


	3. Author's Note: 1

I love Sherlock Holmes. I always have and I probably always will.

I read my first Sherlock Holmes story when my father came back from a military thingy in 2003. Since the Twin Towers incident I hardly ever got to see him. When he came back that summer day, he brought me one little book. My dad knew that I loved to read - I'd read all the Nancy Drews already that summer and was getting ready to start the Hardy Boys series.

The book that he brought was 'The Hound of the Baskervilles'.

And it scared me to death.

Ever since, Holmes and Doctor Watson have been my heroes.

It wasn't that Sherlock Holmes and Doc Watson replaced my dad, but they certainly opened up a whole new relm for me.

Instead of Cowboys and Indians I played Sherlock Holmes.

When the other kids bullied me and my friends deserted me, Holmes and Watson were always there - always. They never failed to show up on those pages and Holmes never let me down - ever.

Ever since then, I have never been alone.

It wasn't long after that that my dear grandfather had me watch a Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes.

And that was the beginning of the media spiral.

When I first saw BBC's SHERLOCK I was severely dissapointed. Why, oh, why did they call each other by their first names. Call me strange, but that bugged me.

Really bugged me.

Up until the line where he said, " Because you're an idiot. Oh, Don't be like that - everyone is."

Now, I love it. I love the show. Except for the gay stuff.

That's where my fanfiction comes in.

I always was more than a little jealous of Dr. Watson. He got to hang out with Holmes and got to do all the cool stuff like fight the bad guys and deal with the police and solve mysteries (granted, he really didn't do a lot of it [You are brilliant, Watson. You reflect genious for me.])

I read some fan fiction and was totally grossed out by the gay-ness... *shudder*

So, let's make Watson a woman!

Easy, right?

Wrong.

I was so wrong. She is, by far, the most difficult and complex character I have ever created (yes, she is based off of a previously drawn character, but men and women are so totally different).

221B is not a romance between Sherlock and Joan - not at all. There is not reason for it. None at all. Joan and Sherlock can be good friends without all the romance involved - end of conversation.

But, I will be evil to Joan. Poor character. I have to remind myself of the Author's Creed, "As an author, it is my duty to create lovable, enticing characters and do horrible, evil things to them."

Gary Morsten (modeled after Mary Morstan, John Watson's wife) is going to die - killed by _. (I LEAVE IT TO YOUR IMAGINATION - WHAHAHAHAHAHA!).

Joan instead marries _. (AGAIN, I LEAVE IT TO YOUR IMAGINATION, but some of you will HATE me by the end. It is somebody no one would suspect and I didn't expect it until my sister suggested it. I was like, "ugh. Ew. No. Uh-hu-hu-hu-hu...ewgh... Nobody in the history of Fan Fiction will have ever... NO." But, then I thought about it and it sounded really cool. So... yeah...)

But this marriage will not hinder Sherlock and Joan's relationship at all, so that's nice.

And I'd better tell you that there will be several of their stories. I'm not re-writing the show, I'm just adding to the episode's and telling other stories that I think should be done.

Happy Reading!

CreativeCrayon


	4. Chapter 3:Police Do Not Consult Amateurs

Sherlock Holmes sat in total silence. He was a hard one to read, but Joan assumed that he was thinking. She had resigned herself to the thought that the taxi ride would be spent in total silence and leaned back in her seat to watch the city lights turn on. Night was falling rather quickly and London's night life was beginning to wake up.

Without taking his eyes from the window, Sherlock Holmes abruptly asked, "I'm sure you have questions?"

The question took Joan by surprise and she started. Then the young doctor nodded and replied, "Where are we going?"

"Crime scene in Brixton," said Sherlock Holmes without any obvious emotion - like a professor at a college would if he were talking about a subject that did not interest him. "Next."

"Who are you? What is it that you do?"

"I am Sherlock Holmes," he said as if it were obvious. "I am the world's only consulting detective."

Having never heard of that particular line of work, Joan asked with a touch of incredulity in her voice, "A consulting detective?"

Sherlock addressed the question simply, "I invented the job." The man still had little to no emotion in his voice or face and that intrigued Joan.

"But the police don't consult amateurs," she reasoned aloud, prompting another answer.

"When we met this afternoon," said Sherlock, casting her a sideways glance, "I asked if you had much family in Florida."

Eyes widening in remembrance of the shock she had had earlier that day, she nodded. her mouth opened and closed a few times before she came up with the correct way to respond, "How did you know I had family there?"

"Your phone." It was a simple enough response, but Joan was too perplexed to see just how her phone pertained to anything.

Her face must have given away some of her inner turmoil, for Sherlock continued, "It had a picture of a famous road sign in Florida. Obviously it was an amateur photo." He made a slight tip of his head in Joan's direction, You have a faint tan line around your neck. The only logical assumption is that you visited there recently and to visit family."

"Yes. But," Joan paused, trying to cypher through this new information, "how did you know it was family."

A smile spread across Sherlock's face, "A lucky guess." For the first time during the drive, the thin man looked at her, his penetrating, lime-green eyes focused on her instead of the passer-by, "You are alone in a big city and have no friends - at least not those you are close to as you are looking for someone to share a flat with. Who else would you be visiting other than family?"

Joan nodded. It made sense.

"Your limp is very bad when you walk," continued Sherlock as he turned to look out the window again, "but you don't ask for a chair when you stand as if you have forgotten about it. Psychosomatic."

"How did you know about my psychiatrist?"

"You have a psychosomatic limp - probably caused by the awakening of formally repressed trauma - and a family in Scotland who is worried about you - of course you have a psychiatrist."

"What about my family, then?"

"Your ring is of Scottish make with a Scottish clan crest - you also bear a slight, almost undetectable Scottish accent, but your name is not Scottish. That suggests that maybe your parents divorced when you were younger - it is possible that they separated." Sherlock gestured to Joan, "Your brother is a drunkard. This is obvious in the phone. It is not originally your phone, this is not something a practical woman like yourself would buy. So, it was gift, then. Again, you have no close friends. Maybe your father gave it to you, but, no, this is a young person's gadget."

Joan's parents had divorced when she was ten years old and her mother took her to Scotland to be with the rest of the family. Young Joan had not understood the reason for the separation and internalized much of the pain.

"OK," she said slowly, still trying to grasp at this strange man's intentions, "but my brother?"

Sherlock picked up Joan's phone and pointed to the inscription on the back, "Inscribed on the back is 'To Harry Watson, From Clara'."

Amazed, Joan could barely even say, "Wow."

"So, who is Clara? The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend or partner. But, you have the phone and it is less than three months old. He gave it to you, that means he's probably worried about you and wants you to call. You are looking for cheap accommodation, but won't go to your brother for help. So, you have problems with him, probably because of his drinking."

Joan's eyebrows were knit together, "How can you know about the drinking?"

"There are scratches all over the phone, specifically near the power connection. Never see a sober man's phone with those scratches - never see a drunk's without them. See? You were right."

"What?" Joan looked completely shocked, "I was right?"

"Police do not consult amateurs."

"That," said Joan with an enormous amount of enthusiasm coupled with nervousness, "was bloody amazing."

There was silence for several seconds. Sherlock looked torn between flattery and disbelief, "Do you really think so?"

Joan scoffed, "Yes."

_**Ok, I know this is an awful lot like the scene from the show, but I HAD to put it in.**_


End file.
